and and and

I bought a book on writing poetry.

I’ve not written any poetry yet, obviously.

I bought it last summer, when I was wild and alcoholic and slipsliding through life and writing and writing and writing. I took out a collection of Bukowski – from which I read a single poem – and bought a book on poetry – from which I wrote none. And then autumn came and the words dried up and I levelled out a bit, if not a lot. And winter came and I got cosy in a life which was nothing much of anything, just family and routine and maybe only slightly whispers on the edge of hearing, from behind my head, at the back of my bed, at night. And Christmas came and Phil died and New Year came and and and

And on my 34th birthday I sobbed into the arms of one of my very best friends, at the memorial service of one of my very best friends, as the vocalist’s voice ever so nearly cracked, as she sang ‘no no, you can’t take that away from me

No no, you can’t take that away from me.


I’ve not written any poetry yet, obviously.

Apparently I’m 34, and my mates ribbed me in the pub the other day when I said I was 33. I don’t feel 34 yet, obviously. Weird, how you mark your age with a birthday. Weird how so many birthdays I remember, I’ve got so smashed I can’t remember a thing. Weird how the one I’ll never forget, never happened.

Last summer I was drunk and wild and I wrote and wrote and wrote, and then as the booze wore off and the mood stabilisers wore on I wore myself out, words gone. I’ve been trying to write since but really you know the main feeling I have remains the grief I have for Phil, this echo that’s never going to fade and that still… that still… still.

Melody lingers on.

I bought a book on writing poetry and obviously I’ve not written any poems yet, because I’ve not finished reading the book and what’s the point writing poetry unless it’s perfect? But I forgot about the book halfway through because I was drunk and wild and too busy fucking and fighting through hangovers and pretending that I could be a happy Bukowski.

I’ve been trying to write since but I keep thinking man, no one wants to read about your grief, it’s self indulgent and unseemly, write about something nicer like depression or suicide or how much you hate the world. But don’t write grief.

I’ve been trying to write and it all used to come so easy, but recently I forgot that as a teenager I started to write, and I always did write, and it’s only now that I’ve changed, I always used to write for myself. Writing for others always weighs down the words. Besides.

I need to write. I need to write this.


Shit.

I never returned Bukowski.

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